


S.O.S.

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Illya makes an unusual discovery in Napoleon's freezer.





	S.O.S.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal's Section7MFU - PicFic Challenge

  


Nose buried in a book, Illya rapped out his personal signal on Napoleon’s door. Two pages later when there was still no answer, his brow furrowed. The door opened just as he raised his hand to knock again. Napoleon stood in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened, a fringe of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Illya looked him over and closed the book with a snap. “Apparently you’ve double-booked your evening…again.” He held out the slim volume. “Here. I was going to ask to borrow the other one, but I wouldn’t want you to keep your guest waiting.”

Napoleon regarded him open-mouthed, his hazel eyes confused, then grimaced. “I’m not entertaining,” he said, pulling Illya inside. “I’ve been dealing with a bit of a situation in the kitchen.”

“What sort of situation?” Illya followed him through the apartment, speculating on a similarly disheveled lady sneaking out the back door. None of the trappings of a romantic evening were visible, however.

“My refrigerator died,” Napoleon said. “And, before you ask, no, I don’t know how long ago. Enough for the milk to look suspect.” He pointed to the line of cartons and containers on his counter awaiting disposal. “I haven’t tackled the freezer yet.”

Illya put the book on the table. “It may have maintained temperature, if you’re lucky.” He opened the door quickly and pulled out the first thing to meet his hand. The can of orange juice concentrate was cold to the touch but sloshed a bit when he shook it. “Whatever’s in there is salvageable, but it will need to be cooked tonight. We can forgo the restaurant and have a smorgasbord here.”

Napoleon started to object, but Illya had already swung the freezer door wide. He stared for several seconds at the neat row of a dozen red boxes, each marked Swanson’s Creamed Chipped Beef. Napoleon twisted his lips and waited for the inevitable comment.  
  
Illya closed the door. “On second thought, I'm not that hungry.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. It’s not yak liver oil.”

“I may have a change of heart about that.” He opened the freezer and looked again, but the contents hadn’t changed. “One would think it enough that the commissary serves this twice monthly.” He turned to Napoleon, who avoided his gaze. “Oh, that's your doing. Do you realize that the lowest morale days at headquarters correspond to the instances of creamed chipped beef on the menu?”

“You’re making that up.”

Illya closed the door firmly and leaned against it for good measure. “Call it a scientific observation.”

Napoleon sat down at the table and rested his chin in his hand. Sensing the shift in mood, Illya took the chair across from him and waited.

“It shouldn’t really be good for my morale either. There are certainly better tasting dishes.” Napoleon stared unseeing at the defunct refrigerator. “I hadn’t been in Korea long. Colonel Morgan said they were running out of ammunition at the front, and he asked for volunteers to take as much as they could carry. I said I’d go. So did this buck private named Baker. We were under heavy fire the whole time. Baker swore it was uphill both ways. Yet somehow we made it back.” He pulled his gaze from the distant battlefield and looked at Illya. “The mess sergeant made creamed chipped beef that night. Even now, when I eat it, I can taste a little of what I felt after that mission: young, victorious, indestructible.”

Illya sighed. “All right, I’ll eat a box. But the best I can promise to feel is indigestion.”

“That takes care of two,” Napoleon said. “Seems a pity to waste the rest.”

“An impromptu dinner party? A few other agents are between assignments. There’s orange juice, and the liquor store will deliver champagne. With enough mimosas, they might not care what they're eating.”

Napoleon passed his hand over his face. “That may be the worst idea I've ever heard.”

“Do you have a better one?”

“I think I do.” He stood and crossed to the phone. “Oregon 35284,” he said when the operator responded. His tone changed as his party came on the line. “Priscilla? Napoleon Solo.”

“The mission doll?” Illya asked.

Napoleon shot him a perplexed glance and held up a finger. “Quiet, please.”

Illya rolled his eyes and reached for the book. The easy familiarity of Napoleon’s conversation indicated this was not the first time he had spoken with Priscilla since Christmas.

Eventually Napoleon got to the point of the call. “I’d like to provide dinner at the mission tonight, if it’s not too short notice. It isn't? Wonderful. Illya and I will meet you there.” He hung up the phone with a satisfied smile.

“So we are off to see your prayin’ tomato,” Illya said in his best Brooklyn accent, not lifting his eyes from the page.

Napoleon frowned and took the book from under Illya’s nose. “ _Guys and Dolls_. OK, that’s enough Damon Runyon for you.” He headed out of the kitchen, the book tucked securely under his arm. “I’ll get the cooler.”

“You like her,” Illya called after him.

“I do,” Napoleon agreed, returning with a red aluminum chest. “I enjoy her conversation and her coffee. But there’s no next step beyond that. She’s pledged her life to an organization, just as I have.”

“Amazing how often it works out that way for you. Very convenient.”

Napoleon winked at him. “At least this one won’t try to kill me.”

Illya watched him load the cooler with creamed chipped beef. “No, I believe Mr. Swanson may get that honor.” 

~~~ 

The Save Our Souls Mission showed no signs of the Christmas attack. Thanks to generous donations from UNCLE and Chairman Koz, the windows had been replaced, bullet holes patched, and walls repainted. Priscilla seemed momentarily nonplussed at the cooler full of creamed chipped beef packages, but she quickly recovered. Francis O’Reilly was put in charge of heating them up. Illya found himself making toast and listening to Francis’ complaints that the minced beef he’d eaten in the Navy was far superior.

As Napoleon helped Priscilla pour coffee, she happily related the progress of Alex Gropkin. “He’s begun exchanging letters with one of Chairman Koz’s grandsons. Isn’t that exciting? Oh, I know it’s just two little boys, but who knows what good might come of such a friendship?”

Napoleon glanced at his partner. “Yes, who knows?”   



End file.
